Fourth Reader

Bear me downwards to the strand,
Where my ships are idly steering
Off and on, in sight of land.”

Every whispered word obeying,
Swift we bore him down the steep,
O’er the deep,
Up the tall ship’s side, low swaying
To the storm-wind’s powerful sweep,
And his dead companions laying
Round him – we had time to weep.

But the king said, “Peace! bring hither
Spoil and weapons, battle-strown —
Make no moan;
Leave me and my dead together;
Light my torch, and then – begone.”
But we murmured, each to other,
“Can we leave him thus alone?”

Angrily the king replieth;
Flashed the awful eye again
With disdain —
“Call him not alone who lieth
Low amidst such noble slain;
Call him not alone who dieth
Side by side with gallant men.”

Slowly, sadly we departed —
Reached again that desolate shore,
Never more
Trod by him, the brave, true-hearted,
Dying in that dark ship’s core!
Sadder keel from land ne’er parted,
Nobler freight none ever bore!

There we lingered, seaward gazing
Watching o’er that living tomb,
Through the gloom —
Gloom which awful light is chasing;
Blood-red flames the surge illume!
Lo! King Hacon’s ship is blazing;
’Tis the hero’s self-sought doom.

Right before the wild wind driving,
Madly plunging – stung by fire —
No help nigh her —
Lo! the ship has ceased her striving!
Mount the red flames higher, higher,
Till, on ocean’s verge arriving,
Sudden sinks the viking’s pyre. —
Hacon’s gone!

    – Lord Dufferin.

MR. PICKWICK ON THE ICE

On Christmas morning Mr. Wardle invited Mr. Pickwick, Mr. Snodgrass, Mr. Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and his other guests to go down to the pond.

“You skate, of course, Winkle?” said Mr. Wardle.

“Ye – s; oh, yes!” replied Mr. Winkle. “I – I – am rather out of practice.”

“Oh, do skate, Mr. Winkle,” said Arabella. “I like to see it so much.”

“Oh, it is so graceful,” said another young lady.

A third young lady said it was “elegant,” and a fourth expressed her opinion that it was “swanlike.”

“I should be very happy, I am sure,” said Mr. Winkle, reddening, “but I have no skates.”

This objection was at once overruled. Trundle had a couple of pairs, and the fat boy announced that there were half a dozen more downstairs; whereat Mr. Winkle expressed exquisite delight, and looked exquisitely uncomfortable.

Mr. Wardle led the way to a pretty large sheet of ice; and the fat boy and Mr. Weller having shovelled and swept away the snow which had fallen on it during the night, Mr. Bob Sawyer adjusted his skates with a dexterity which to Mr. Winkle was perfectly marvellous, and described circles with his left leg, and cut figures of eight, and inscribed upon the ice, without once stopping for breath, a great many other pleasant and astonishing devices, – to the excessive satisfaction of Mr. Pickwick, Mr. Tupman, and the ladies, – which reached a pitch of positive enthusiasm when Mr. Wardle and Benjamin Allen, assisted by Bob Sawyer, performed some mystic evolutions which they called a reel.

All this time Mr. Winkle, with his face and hands blue with the cold, had been forcing a gimlet into the soles of his shoes, and putting his skates on, with the points behind, and getting the straps into a very complicated state, with the assistance of Mr. Snodgrass, who knew rather less about skates than a Hindoo. At length, however, with the assistance of Mr. Weller, the unfortunate skates were firmly screwed and buckled on, and Mr. Winkle was raised to his feet.

“Now, then, sir,” said Sam, in an encouraging tone, “off with you, and show them how to do it.”

“Stop, Sam, stop!” said Mr. Winkle, trembling violently, and clutching hold of Sam’s arms with the grasp of a drowning man. “How slippery it is, Sam!”

“Not an uncommon thing upon ice, sir,” replied Mr. Weller. “Hold up, sir!”

This last observation of Mr. Weller’s bore reference to a demonstration Mr. Winkle made at the instant of a frantic desire to throw his feet in the air, and dash the back of his head on the ice.

“These – these – are very awkward skates; aren’t they, Sam?” inquired Mr. Winkle, staggering.

“I’m afraid there’s an awkward gentleman in ’em, sir,” replied Sam.

“Now, Winkle,” cried Mr. Pickwick, quite unconscious that there was anything the matter. “Come; the ladies are all anxiety.”

“Yes, yes,” replied Mr. Winkle, with a ghastly smile. “I’m coming.”

“Just going to begin,” said Sam, endeavoring to disengage himself. “Now, sir, start off!”

“Stop an instant, Sam,” gasped Mr. Winkle, clinging most affectionately to Mr. Weller. “I find I’ve got a couple of coats at home that I don’t want, Sam. You may have them, Sam.”

“Thank ’ee, sir,” replied Mr. Weller.

“Never mind touching your hat, Sam,” said Mr. Winkle, hastily. “You needn’t take your hand away to do that. I meant to have given you five shillings this morning for a Christmas-box, Sam. I’ll give it to you this afternoon, Sam.”